Cold Metal
by wanderingtardisonbakerstreet
Summary: His eyes didn't focus. The darkness fell slowly around him until he was just a silhouette against the backdrop of a cold moon. He was sitting in the chair of his best friend; the lingering scent of smoke clasped him in a taunting, evil embrace. The chair had no owner now. Post-Reichenbach. One shot. Warnings: major character death and possible triggers for suicide/suicidal thoughts


******Two things:  
a) This story is not betaed, so bear with me here.  
b) I'm from the US, so please excuse any inconsistencies with British vs American word usage.**

**Post-Reichenbach. Sort of(?) spoilers.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. That honor goes to Sir ACD and Moftiss.**

**Warnings: Major character death and possible triggers for suicide/suicidal thoughts.**

* * *

Blank gazes echoed through the walls of the small flat. A yellow smile stared garishly from one wall, holes punched into its smugly drawn face with bullets from a gun once held in the palm of the greatest detective.

His eyes didn't focus. The darkness fell slowly around him until he was just a silhouette against the backdrop of a cold moon. He was sitting in the chair of his best friend; the lingering scent of smoke and chemicals clasped him in a taunting, evil embrace. The chair had no owner now.

_I was so alone._

He was alone now. The world moved slowly as if it wanted to be gentle with him. He wasn't sure what day it was, had no clue how much time had gone by. His body had completely shut down. His eyes, once alert with military precision, were now glazed over in a stupor that wasn't alcohol induced.

"John, what are you doing? We have a case!" The dark cloaked figure spun from his sudden appearance and rushed down the stairs.

The doctor didn't follow.

_No one could be that clever._

_ You could._

"John, are you alright?" The dark cloaked figure knelt in front of him now, hidden by the shadows.

The glazed eyes remained unfocused.

_One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. _

"Perhaps you need something to eat." The dark figure was now in the kitchen.

_Don't be…dead._

All was silent, then a haunting melody sprung from the strings of the dusty violin. He knew the dark cloaked figure now stood in front of the window, gliding the bow across the strings in an ethereal tune, almost as if trying to coax him from his black, vacant state.

Thoughts that had once flown wildly about his tortured mind were now silent. He was numb. There was nothing left.

All but one thought had silenced its constant ticking around his head.

His gun lay gently in his fingers. If he were to try, he could still imagine the fingerprints his lost friend had left on the cold metal. His hands were still, strangely still. He was weary, so weary. Was it too much to ask for a reprieve? Was that selfish?

He raised the barrel to his temple.

A slight tremor went through his hand as he heard the dark cloaked figure call his name one final time.

And then he was silent.

* * *

A dark cloaked figure stands by a gravesite he never thought he would visit in person. He'd seen it from a distance a few times, watching a man grieve the loss of his friend, but never up close. But now, instead of his own name written on the gray tombstone, it bears the name of a certain doctor.

He sighs; a deep, soul-bleeding burst of air. If only he'd come back sooner. If only his doctor had understood what was going on. If only he'd never left _at all. _

If only he could delete the image of a gun poised and fired mere seconds after he'd taken the final step back into his home.

_ If only._

How predictably sentimental. He can't bring himself to care.

Mrs. Hudson had been there earlier, if the flowers are any indication. She'd probably stood there and "told" the doctor all about the returned tenant at 221B.

He snorts in derision at the thought of talking to a dead person.

Flipping up his collar and shoving his hands into his pockets, he turns to go.

He makes it ten steps before he goes back.

Kneeling in the soft, fresh soil piled above his friend's—his _best _friend's casket, he grasps the chilled stone. He doesn't notice the dampness seeping through the fabric of his trousers or the mud sullying the hem of his coat. His forehead rests against the cool surface and he waits.

Thoughts that had once flown wildly about his tortured mind are now silent. He is numb. There is nothing left.

The cemetery is sympathetically silent for several minutes before the figure finally whispers the words that have been constantly echoing in his now achingly silent mind.

"I miss you, John."

* * *

**Also, I'm not, and never have been, depressed/suicidal. ****I apologize for the angst. I promise I don't always write depressing stuff. :) ****-C**


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